Victory Enough

On the heels of my last post about how I spent this year's Boston Marathon, and after Friday's confession about embracing our body images, I wanted to  write a quick post about something I realized on Monday, a sort of "wall-bustage" during my own personal life-marathon.

As I was walking home from spectating, the cheers of the crowd still faintly reaching my ears, I got a text from my friend Leah (aka "Boyfriend"). I had invited her down earlier in the week to day drink spectate with me, as she's a lot of fun and, really, I didn't want to do it alone. She wanted to let me know that she was so sorry she hadn't gotten back to me before the marathon, but that she'd had a really rough weekend. I told her I was sorry to hear about her troubles, and to please not worry, because I went by myself and had a fabulous time cheering on the runners anyway. Her response came a few minutes later:

"That's great, I can't believe your change since you moved down there!"

It stopped me, quite literally, in my tracks. I thought about the implications of her words. And then, staring at 11 simple words on my cell phone, a grin that could have rivaled the ones crossing the finish line at Copley spread across my face. Then I fist-pumped the sky.

Honestly, there was once a time in the not-so-distant past when I NEVER would have even considered spectating by myself. It might seem insane to some readers (and I know it seems nuts to people I know in person, particularly my colleagues), as I've been told I tend to come across as a self-assured, outgoing individual, but I am actually extremely shy. At times, debilitatingly so.

I've always been this way; I used to dread going to Church not because I didn't want to sit still for an hour, but because the thought of turning to my pew neighbors, shaking their hands and mumbling, "peace be with you," literally made me break out into a cold sweat (I still have to psyche myself up for it, to this day). "Stranger Danger" takes on an entirely new meaning when doing ANYTHING involving the unfamiliar, ranging from a simple phone call or handshake to participating in a new experience in which you might look "imperfect" or non-conformist, causes you to have nightmares, dry mouth and panic attacks.

I should probably note that the basis of this problem all started before I ever had a conscious inkling about image perception, bodily or otherwise, but I'd be lying through my teeth if I didn't admit that it became infinitely worse in college when, after spending a year thinking I had a great set of friends with whom I was thick as thieves, they dropped me from their social circle for no apparent reason, the night before room draw our freshman year.

That hurt, and the implications of wondering what had gone wrong to make me deserve to be on the receiving end of such a mean act did a real number on my psyche. Was it something I'd said? Something I'd done? Was I too fat? Too clingy? Too something? Whatever it was, trying to pinpoint it sent me into the tailspin that ended in the best way possible: a ton of therapy, a good set of friends and a new appreciation for the only person who will always be there to stick up for me: myself.

I still slip sometimes. In my heart or hearts, I know that those first years here in Boston, it wasn't just that I "didn't want to deal with the hassle" of going down to the race course. It was because I was so self-conscious about my body that I convinced myself that among this sea of accomplished athletes, I would stick out as a poser -- the girl who wanted to run but couldn't even manage a mile, even if she tried, whose body and mind literally seized up at the prospect of all those people watching her, judging her -- and thus had no right standing in the presence of such greatness and ambition.

The funny part is, two years ago, I was using the c25k while running regularly, and a good 20lbs lighter than I am right now.

Yet this week, I took myself on a field trip on a huge stage. I screamed for people I didn't know with abandon. I chatted with the constant parade of people next to me, helping them spot their friends and relatives among the sea of champions. I now have the honor of saying I ran on Beacon during the Boston Marathon (ok, I was on the wrong side of the street to get home, and a nice policeman let me race across the street during a small gap of runners, but running on the street is still running on the street).

Maybe someday, I will have the honor of saying I ran it all.

In the meantime, I'll take just being there as victory enough.